


Along Came Molly

by sunken_standard



Series: Have You Heard About the Morstans? [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Molly Hooper is Mary Morstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After living as Mary Morstan's husband for three years, John's life is thrown into chaos when Sherlock returns from the dead. (Not Series 2 compliant)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Along Came Molly

**Author's Note:**

> The companion piece to 'Have You Heard About the Morstans?' Originally posted to my LiveJournal on January 12th, 2011; beta read by herovillain.

Molly was standing at the back door again, staring out at the storm. She'd been quietly moping all day, since the test had come out negative again this morning. These things take time, he'd told her, but she was still so upset over it. He'd left her to it and spent the day writing his novel. He'd originally based it on the cases he'd blogged about, but it was growing into a more domestic, day-to-day piece about living with a mad genius.  
  
The doorbell rang. He heaved a weary sigh, reluctant to get up. Was probably just Bob or Carol again. They were odd ones, but he was convinced that if they'd been working for Moriarty, they'd have made a move by now. He set his laptop aside and levered himself off the sofa. It wasn't that far to the door, so he left his cane where it rested against the side table.  
  
He unlocked the door and opened it. Instead of his nosy neighbours, there was a tall, blonde man on his porch. "Can I help you?" he asked, unsure what the bloke was doing here.  
  
Then the man looked up through his soaked fringe, and John felt like he was seeing a ghost.  
  
It was Sherlock. The scraggly ginger beard and blonde hair didn't fit, but the eyes... John stared for long moments, drinking him in. Sherlock's gaze darted over his face, searching.  
  
Finally he spoke. "John." It was barely above a whisper and filled with so much emotion.  
  
John felt his head start to swim. He gripped the frame of the door for support, but it was a lost cause. He felt the blood drain from his face, his ears began to ring, his vision narrowed to black. He was outside himself as his body went limp.  
  
When he came to, Sherlock was looming over him, his hair dripping onto John's face and neck. Sherlock leaned back enough for John to sit up, never breaking eye contact.  
  
"So it really is you?" He reached out to touch Sherlock's cheek, feeling the surprisingly soft hair of the man's beard under his fingertips. He breathed deeply, trying to catch a hint of Sherlock's scent just to confirm.  
  
Sherlock tilted his head into John's touch, his eyes drooping closed ever so slightly. He gave John one of his private smiles. "It really is me, John."  
  
Sherlock helped him to his feet then, looking him up and down. John wondered if his appearance was surprising to Sherlock. He'd put on nearly a stone and had kept his hair long and his clothes were a little bit flash; he hoped Sherlock wouldn't dismiss this version of himself. Sherlock looked as scrawny as ever, even under the layers of baggy clothes. Work boots, worn jeans, battered brown polo with a thermal underneath, army jacket. His hair was straight and dyed to a colour just lighter than John's own.  
  
A droplet of water ran from Sherlock's hairline and over his temple. John tracked it as it slid down the side of his face, finally being caught by his beard.  
  
"You look like a drowned rat."  
  
"I had to walk from the High Street. There aren't any bloody cabs in this town." Sherlock quirked his mouth into another half smile, even as he put on an air of casual disdain. It was brilliant.  
  
John chuckled softly and ushered him into the house, past the lounge area and to the breakfast bar. Molly was already making tea.  
  
He faced Sherlock, a million questions rushing through his head. Wheres and hows and whys, but he settled on the most important. "Is it done, then?"  
  
Sherlock nodded, just one small movement of his head. He looked so worn and tired. John watched as Sherlock took in the room, wondering what he read in its contents. John knew he was staring, but he just couldn't take his eyes off the man in front of him.  
  
Molly set a mug of tea in front of each of them, then the bottle of milk and the sugar bowl. "I'll just get you something warm to change into," she said before going upstairs.  
  
The questions began to tumble out once Molly was upstairs. "Where-? Why are-?" He took a breath and settled on, "How did you know where to find us?"  
  
"Mycroft told me. I didn't know until after Moriarty was dead, as a precaution."  
  
"When-?"  
  
"Three days ago. In Oslo. I'd been there for the last six months, biding my time. Vagabonds are easy to overlook."  
  
"How?"  
  
Sherlock eyed him, his expression grim. "Do you really want to know that, John?"  
  
John tipped his chin and looked at Sherlock straight on. "Yes."  
  
"I strangled him. With my bare hands."  
  
John nodded. It wasn't good, but that was fine. He wished he'd been there to see it. They fell quiet for a while, both contemplating what Sherlock had done. At length, John spoke. "If it was three days ago, what took you so long to get here?" And that really didn't come out the way he'd intended.  
  
Sherlock gave another half-smile. "Mycroft advised against flying, so I secured passage on a cargo ship from Oslo to Frederikshavn, then hopped a boxcar to Rotterdam, and then the ferry to Hull. Then I hitch-hiked."  
  
John couldn't help but laugh. He could imagine Sherlock making friends with dockworkers and hobos, charming them into doing his bidding. He really was a marvel.  
  
Molly came up beside him and slipped her arm around his waist. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him, giving a little squeeze because  _ Sherlock was alive _ and Moriarty was gone.  
  
Molly told Sherlock the bathroom was ready and offered to make him dinner. What's more, Sherlock was polite, gracious even, in accepting and excusing himself upstairs.  
  
John waited until Sherlock was upstairs before erupting with glee. "Can you believe he's spent the last six months living in Norway as a drifter?" He laughed, joyous, and pulled her into a kiss.  
  
Sherlock picked that moment to come tramping down the stairs half-dressed. John felt suddenly guilty. After all, Sherlock had just confessed to killing a man, even if he was a terrible man, and it didn't seem right to be snogging Molly in front of him.  
  
Molly broke away from him to make Sherlock something to eat. John sat at the breakfast bar and watched her, sipping his stone-cold tea. It was over, they could go home. Sherlock was  _ alive _ . It was better than Christmas.  
  
Sherlock came back down, his skin a healthy pink and his cheeks once again smooth. The blonde hair still threw John a little, although his colouring did suit it. He imagined Sherlock crouched over a sink in a petrol station, touching up his roots. It was insane. Everything about this night was madness.  
  
Sherlock recounted where he'd been in between mouthfuls of pasta. Sydney, New York, Johannesburg, Buenos Aires, bloody  _ Tibet _ . He'd almost died in Switzerland, when he'd pushed Moriarty's second-in-command over the side of a waterfall. He'd been shot once, but only a graze, and took a ricocheted bullet to the thigh. Apparently, Moriarty had been a crap shot, even with a laser sight. Sherlock had been forced to spend a month laid up in a squat in Bern while the worst of the damage healed.  
  
Molly had been quiet the whole time, until she choked on a sob and fled upstairs.  
  
Sherlock gave him a curious look and he felt like he needed to provide an explanation. None was immediately forthcoming. How could he sum up three years of his ersatz marriage with Molly without alienating Sherlock? Hell, he probably knew all the details anyway.  
  
"She's had a bit of an upset this morning." He rubbed the back of his neck. He felt torn. Every instinct screamed for him to go to Molly. He still had the irrational fear that if he left Sherlock alone downstairs, the man would be gone when John returned.  
  
Sherlock went back to eating. "I'll be here when you're finished, John," he said with a cryptic note to his tone that John couldn't place.  
  
John watched Sherlock eat for another minute, then went to Molly. She was curled on their bed, her face buried in his pillow, sobbing her heart out. He hadn't heard her cry like that in years and it was upsetting. He pulled her into his lap and rocked her.  
  
He found himself suddenly fighting tears as the full implications of what it finally being over meant. He'd grown close to Molly these past few years, had grown to love her after a fashion.  
  
The woman Molly had become, on the surface, was just about everything he'd ever looked for in a potential mate. She was intelligent and sweet, witty, independent. She wasn't mousy anymore. She was physically attractive, her face delicate and pixie-like. She was well fit, actually. And she was completely uninhibited in the bedroom. Maybe it was just the roles they'd been playing or maybe it was the true core of Molly, after the layers of social conditioning and expectation had been peeled away.  
  
It was difficult sometimes for him to remember what was a persona and what was real with himself. John Watson had never been prone to vanity, purely a man of practicality. At first, he'd just worn the clothes the MI5 had provided him with. It was fine, something to cover his body. Then he'd found himself liking the way he looked. Maybe not as put-together as Sherlock, but still a far cry from over-large oatmeal jumpers and utilitarian jeans.  
  
He'd put off having a haircut for months after arriving in Sutton-on-Sea. He hadn't liked the vulnerable position sitting in a barber's chair would put him in. In retrospect, it had been a bit paranoid. After they'd got the news of Sherlock's death, part of him stopped caring and he'd almost welcomed an attempt on his life. Those had been dark days. He'd kept his hair longer, like it had been before he'd enlisted. When he'd been a bit of a daredevil and a shameless womaniser. Women always seemed to like it (Molly included), running their fingers through it and tugging on it, and he'd liked that bit too, so the hair had stayed.  
  
With the change in his outward appearance, John had noticed his personality start to shift. He'd always been charming in his own earnest way and a bit of a flirt. More on the quiet side though, prone to choosing his words carefully. Now he had no reason to be.  
  
They'd both become their idealized selves and those two people seemed to fit together remarkably well. He wondered how well the old John and the old Molly would fit together, or if they could even go back to being those people.  
  
He'd grown dependent on Molly. It was more than camaraderie from a shared ordeal (he would know, he'd had that in spades in the Army). She was his only link to the real world sometimes. And she cared about him deeply. He couldn't just go back to living as a bachelor with a flat share. He loved the nights they'd spent together, cuddled on the sofa or in the bed, the physical reassurance that there was one other person who  _ knew _ . And they'd worked well together. They'd had fun redoing the house. And now they were trying for a baby, which was thrilling and terrifying and something they'd both always wanted. Molly had become his partner in all senses of the word. He couldn't just give that up.  
  
But then there was Sherlock. Mad, beautiful, brilliant Sherlock. He'd missed him every day. John had only lived with him for a few months, but he'd been, for lack of a better word, smitten. God, the man was like Peter Pan half the time, leaping about like he'd never grown up. He was so unlike anyone John had ever known. He'd been in awe of him every minute he'd spent in his presence, when he hadn't wanted to throttle him.  
  
His mind flashed back to the last time he'd seen Sherlock, how they'd left things. He'd turned it over in his head many times in the years since that night. They'd argued bitterly. John hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock's side, but he'd seen it as his duty. He'd proven to be a chink in Sherlock's armour and he wouldn't have Sherlock make another mistake because John was in danger. Moriarty had to be taken down, full stop. John couldn't get in the way of that.  
  
Sherlock had been hurt and accused him of wanting to leave. John had tried to explain, but Sherlock refused to see. John had stormed upstairs, trying to get as far from Sherlock as he physically could without leaving the house. In retrospect, John may have been too readily self-sacrificing, it had haunted him from the day Mycroft had called him to report Sherlock's death.  
  
A few hours after they'd argued was when things had gone a bit pear-shaped. John had been laying on his bed on top of the duvet, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock had slipped into his room, ethereal in the moonlight. He'd stood near John's knees and stared. There had been something in his face, some emotion John had hesitated to name (even in all the times he'd thought back over it) and it had unsettled John. Sherlock had sat down on the bed and John had moved into an upright position to accommodate him. Sherlock had cupped John's cheek, his face so young and lost looking that John had felt his resolve waiver.  
  
Sherlock had whispered, "Please, John," and had leaned in to kiss him. It was a sweeter kiss than he ever would have imagined from the man.  
  
John had kissed exactly two blokes before that. One of his old rugby team-mates had suggested it when they had been completely faced and it had seemed like a good idea, since neither of them had been able to pull that night. They'd passed out with their hands on each other's cocks and had a great laugh about it the following morning. The other had been Murray. They'd been on leave and some bird had suggested they both go back to her place. It wasn't the first threesome he'd had, but the others had all been with two women. There had been a lot of kissing between the three of them and instead of one of them getting sucked off while the other fucked her, she'd wanted them both at the same time. John had had more experience with anal, so he laid behind her while Murray had her from the front. It had been mind-blowing. Everything had been tight and hot and the added stimulation of Murray's cock rubbing against his through only a thin barrier of tissue and latex had been indescribable. Beyond that, John hadn't ever thought about men. Some of them were attractive, but he'd never looked at a man and thought "God, I'd like to bend that over the arm of the sofa."  
  
He'd fantasized once or twice about sharing a woman with Sherlock like he had with Murray. It was the kind of thing you only did with someone you trusted completely and who shared in that feeling of trust with you. Of course, he'd known it was only a fantasy, since women weren't Sherlock's area. He'd begun to doubt the man had any sexuality to speak of.  
  
And then Sherlock had kissed him. There'd been no mistaking his intention. John had wavered for a moment, because he knew nothing would ever be the same from that point, but had finally given in to himself and his desire to be closer to Sherlock in any way he could. The kiss had been a conversation. It had been gentle then forceful, slow then frantic, longing and fulfilled, chaste and then a hint of promise without being outright filthy. It had encompassed everything between the two of them, their frustrations and affections tangling lips and tongues and teeth until breathing each other's air wasn't enough. The kiss had ended slowly, winding down with smaller, lighter presses of lips, until John had rested his forehead against Sherlock's. He'd kept his eyes shut, hating what he'd known he had to do. He'd whispered an apology and Sherlock had gone rigid. He'd pulled away and left the room without a word. John had laid back on the bed and let himself cry silently, just a little bit, hating himself for having to be the practical one in this impossible situation.  
  
It was this memory that brought the tears to his eyes as he held Molly. He kissed her hair. His loyalties were divided. He had a bond with Molly like he'd never had with another woman. She'd been there for him when he'd felt like he'd lost everything. The feeling of loss had been worse than when he'd come home from Afghanistan. The only exception was the sense of duty he felt to protect Molly. He'd clung to the sense of purpose. He'd wanted to make life good for the both of them. But she didn't make him feel alive in the way Sherlock did.  
  
Would Sherlock still want him in that way? It was years ago and they'd only know each other such a short time. Sherlock was not the same man that kissed John that night. He'd lived rough, never getting a chance to rest or regroup. He'd killed. He'd been alone the whole time. But it had to mean something that he'd come to John first. Mycroft could have met him in Hull, or had a car sent to pick him up. Instead, Sherlock had made his way to John.  
  
But John couldn't just toss aside what he had with Molly. It wasn't all based on lies. He held a deep and genuine affection for her. It might not be a passionate, all-consuming, mad love, but it was strong and had seen him through. His duty was no longer to protect her from Moriarty, but he still felt compelled to protect her all the same. It was a very base, very male instinct.  
  
Finally, he found his voice. "Nothing has to change between us." And God, how he hoped that was true.  
  
After a while, Molly got up to use the loo, then left to make up the guest room. John checked himself in the mirror. His eyes were a little red, and Sherlock would surely notice, but there was no help for it. He returned downstairs.  
  
Sherlock had finished eating and was wandering through the lounge. The man had actually taken his dish to the sink and washed it. John sat himself on the sofa and turned on the telly, unsure of what to say. He opted for uncomfortable silence.  
  
Molly came back downstairs and sat next to him on the sofa, wedging her hand into his. He felt a moment of panic when the thought occurred to him that Molly might still be harbouring a crush on Sherlock. Wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake? He was jealous of Sherlock and irrationally afraid of not being the centre of Molly's attention. He clamped down hard on those feelings, attributing the hysteria to being over-tired and emotionally over-taxed.  
  
Sherlock lingered a moment at the bookshelves before speaking. "I think I'll turn in for the night, if you don't mind. Mycroft is having a car sent in the morning." His tone was oddly formal and polite, and so wrong it made John ache. "Goodnight John, Molly."  
  
John felt an odd sense of loss when Sherlock left the room. Of course he wouldn't be staying with them longer than the night. He'd come here first as a courtesy, strange as that was. He'd be back to London tomorrow. John and Molly would follow. He had no doubt that Mycroft was already in the process of arranging things for their return. John would have to broach the subject in the morning with Sherlock, since he intended to tell the man he wouldn't be returning to Baker Street. He couldn't leave Molly. Wouldn't.  
  
Molly pulled herself from her own thoughts to ask, "What now?"  
  
Normally Molly was self-assured and independent. She functioned autonomously when it came to making decisions. She'd still relied on him for comfort and emotional support, but she hadn't been needy. Now she sounded lost.  
  
So John did what he felt the situation warranted and told her simply what they'd do. Go back to London get jobs, get a flat, live their lives.  
  
Molly sounded regretful when she said, "I'm going to miss this."  
  
John thought ruefully that he wouldn't. He'd missed London, he'd missed Sherlock, he'd missed being fully and completely John Watson. He didn't have the same connection to the house that Molly had. He'd enjoyed the process and the physical exertion involved in the remodel, but it was more something to fill the time than a labour of love. To him, it was more little more than a nicely decorated prison.  
  
They spent the next hour laying on the sofa and talking about the things they'd do when they returned to London. Molly's morose attitude lessened as they talked about all the things they'd never done, even though Molly had grown up in London and John had lived there for a good part of his adult life.  
  
Finally, the excitement of the day caught up with them and they went to bed. John settled on his back and pulled Molly close to his side. He enjoyed falling asleep like this, since it wasn't really their norm. John was usually in bed long before Molly. He didn't mind falling asleep alone, but it was always a welcome comfort when she was snuggled next to him.  
  
She began to trace her fingertips up his thigh, catching in the fine hair. It never failed to arouse him, but tonight it just didn't feel right. He was tired and drained and Sherlock was just down the hall. It would be rude to have it off with Molly with him so close. After all, the man had spent the last three years completely alone, while John had had Molly. He couldn't imagine how lonely it must have been.  
  
"I'm knackered. Maybe in the morning." He did feel bad about turning her down. He gave her a kiss goodnight and settled back to sleep.  
  
John awoke earlier than usual. He fought the urge to tear downstairs like it was Christmas morning just to check that Sherlock hadn't left. He forced himself to shower and dress before going to the kitchen to make tea.  
  
Sherlock was already downstairs, still wearing John's pyjamas and sprawled on the sofa with John's laptop. It was such an achingly familiar sight that John felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, his throat and chest tightening. He turned away quickly and began pulling things out of the fridge to make them both breakfast.  
  
John heard Sherlock set the laptop aside and pad into the kitchen. He perched himself at the breakfast bar and watched John measure the oats and sugar into the bowl. John had learned how to make proper flapjacks from Molly, not the kind his own Mum had made that you could break a tooth on. He knew Sherlock would like them. He preferred his first meal of the day (when he was inclined to eat at all) to be something sweet. John had nearly doubled over laughing when he'd stumbled into their kitchen a week after moving in to see Sherlock folded into his chair, watching the news, eating a bowl of Coco Pops balanced on his knees. He'd looked like an overgrown six-year-old.  
  
John felt uncomfortable at Sherlock's scrutiny. The man hadn't said so much as good morning. That wasn't unusual really, Sherlock hadn't been lying when he'd warned John that he sometimes didn't talk for days. The quality of it was different. John knew Sherlock was deducing every moment of the past three years, probably just by the way he stirred the mixture in the bowl.  
  
"If you'd like, I could throw your clothes in the washer while this bakes." It was an admittedly lame opening, but he needed to say something.  
  
"That would be fine. Thank you."  
  
Sherlock never said thank you. At least, never to John.  
  
Sherlock bounded up the stairs and returned with his rucksack and the clothing he'd arrived in wadded up in a tight bundle. He followed John into the downstairs loo, which also held the washer and dryer. He started the machine filling and measured out the laundry soap while Sherlock began pulling crumpled clothes out of the rucksack and checking the pockets. Sherlock leaned against the door frame and watched him load the clothing into the machine.  
  
It was awkward. John didn't know what to say. Nothing he thought of was a suitable opener. How could John tell him how much he's missed him and that, when he'd thought Sherlock was dead, he really didn't have much to live for? How could he explain his feelings for Molly to Sherlock?  
  
"You don't have to explain anything, John."  
  
"How-?"  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
  
John barked out a laugh.  
  
Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile. "I also know there was a double murder committed in your guest room. The person who cleaned the wardrobe afterwards was 5'2" and had an arthritic right hand, along with knee problems. They missed some of the finer arterial spray on the bottom shelf and the top of the cupboard door."  
  
"They told us it was a murder-suicide."  
  
"It wasn't."  
  
John shook his head. "Amazing."  
  
Sherlock looked well pleased with himself and everything felt achingly normal again for a minute.  
  
They went back to the kitchen and John served them both breakfast. Sherlock fleshed out even more details on Moriarty's network. The detective had single-handedly broken up a global crime syndicate.  
  
Sherlock's car arrived at 10:30. There was no need for a good-bye, as John knew he'd be seeing him again very soon. Mycroft's assistant, going by the name of Marilyn this time, called just after noon to give them instructions.  
  
John sent Harry an email with his mobile number. She'd had the same email address for twelve years, so it was the only thing he was certain hadn't changed. She called screaming, just as he'd expected, but he managed to calm her down and they'd had a nice talk and a good cry over the phone. He promised he'd see her when he got back to London.  
  
They spent the next week packing. Mycroft had secured a flat on North Gower Street, conveniently located almost halfway between Bart's (should Molly get her old job back) and Baker Street. He'd been informed that should he choose to accept the position, there was a private practice waiting for him. Mycroft hadn't been specific, but had drawled the word 'discretion' in such a way as to lead John to believe he'd be catering to a different clientèle than he had at the surgery.  
  
John's leg had loosened up considerably over the week spent packing. He still limped, but he could take the stairs without the aid of the cane.  
  
He didn't hear from Sherlock until the second night back in London, just as he and Molly were settling down for bed. She was still in a bit of a strop since she'd visited her parents' house earlier in the day and he'd planned on distracting her a bit. He was full of energy.  
  
** Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH **   
  
John's heart clenched just a little. Sherlock might not grasp the significance of the wording, as he'd probably deleted it from his hard drive. John chuckled fondly at the memory of their first case, almost four years ago. He set the phone down and began unbuttoning his shirt. The phone buzzed again.  
  
** If inconvenient, come anyway. SH  **   
  
As he read the text, the screen flashed to let him know another had been received. John already knew what it would say.  
**  
Could be dangerous. SH **   
  
John wasn't sure what this meant. Sherlock was both the most subtle and blatant man he'd ever met. He was also unsentimental and oblivious to what was generally accepted as romantic. It wasn't an overture, then. Not that it would be. He was preying on John's innate sentimentality to get him to do something for him, like make tea. Two days back in bloody London and Sherlock was already up to his old tricks.  
  
John needed to make him understand that things were different now. He wasn't there to cater to Sherlock's whims any more. He sent a reply.  
  
** Going to bed. Will not come over to make tea. Only text if emergency. JW **   
  
John got into bed and wiggled around a bit, trying to settle. He itched for the excitement that had been lacking for the last three years. Wouldn't do to hope it was actually a case though. Another text came through, and John sighed at the prospect of having to explain to Sherlock that they'd have to set rules about when texting was and wasn't appropriate.  
  
** Cab will be there in ten minutes. Meet downstairs. SH **   
  
John dialled Sherlock and swore when the man didn't answer. Of course he wouldn't. It would serve the man right if John rolled over and went to sleep. But...  
  
He got out of bed and pulled on his jeans. Molly sat up, instantly alert and worried.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"It's probably nothing." He cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead. "Just go back to sleep."  
  
Molly settled back and watched him dress. He slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind him. He still had the Browning they'd issued him as a replacement for his Sig. He'd stashed it in the drawer of the writing desk in the lounge. He checked the clip and slid it beneath the waistband of his jeans, then grabbed his keys and left the flat.  
The cab was idling on the opposite side of the street. John darted over and got in.  
  
Before John had a chance to speak, Sherlock remarked, "Six minutes, you've gotten rusty."  
  
John shot him an annoyed look, Sherlock smirked and the clock rewound three and a half years. 

 

\---------

  
John couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this good. The cab dropped him outside his flat and John bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time and relishing the fact that he  _ could _ . He burst through the door and swept Molly into a kiss. He'd only meant it as an expression of his overwhelming joy that he was John Watson again, but the combination of a body against his and the adrenaline rush still coursing through his veins gave him other ideas. He hitched her legs around his waist and carried her to the bedroom, because he  _ could _ . He fucked her then, good and proper without his bad leg hindering him. He hadn't gone off that quickly since he was a teenager, but he made it up to her by going down afterwards. She screamed like a banshee and nearly ripped out a fistful of his hair.  
  
Molly, still flushed and trembling and wrapped tightly around him said, "I'm not complaining, far from it, but what brought that on?"  
  
So he told her. Staking out a secret rendezvous spot, finding that the client's husband wasn't in fact cheating on his wife but arranging for her murder, being caught, being chased, doubling back, then chasing the suspect right into a gaggle of Lestrade's men in Covent Garden tube station.  
  
Molly didn't say anything about it, but he could tell she was worried. He found himself curiously annoyed with that, but also flattered. He was a grown man who had survived a bloody war, he didn't need her to worry. But she worried because she cared about him. It had been a very long time since someone fretted over John Watson's safety.  
  
After a week in the flat, Mycroft sent a car for him. Molly was out shopping for the various and sundry household things they hadn't packed, like toilet cleaner and kitchen roll. They'd had a bit of a tiff over what she should buy, because neither of them had an income yet and they would have to pay rent and utility bills soon enough.  
  
John got in the car and was greeted with a quick glance from Mycroft's assistant. "What's your name this time?"  
  
"Bettie." She gave him a haughty look and went back to her Blackberry. John settled in for the drive.  
  
They entered an underground car park just off Pall Mall. Bettie herded him into a service lift. She entered a code into a keypad below the numbered buttons, and John was surprised to feel the lift descending. The lift doors opened into what appeared to be a modern hospital reception area, upmarket and minimalist (maple panelling with recessed lighting in the walls, brushed chrome fixtures, green glass partition and doors dividing the area from the hallway beyond, Danish modern furniture, vertical frosted glass fountain), with an airy feel to it despite the small size. And of course, Mycroft Holmes.  
  
"You're looking well, John," he smiled in that oily way of his that made John's skin crawl.  
  
"Thank you. So this is the place?"  
  
"Mmm, yes. If you come this way, I'll show you to your new office."  
  
"I never said I'd be taking the job."  
  
"Come now, John. Locum work was a waste of the... talents... of a man such as yourself. I can promise that the compensation is more substantial, and when planning for a family, one needs to ensure their financial security."  
  
"My personal life is really none of your business."  
  
Mycroft eyed him for a moment longer and opened the door leading back to the hallway. He held the door open behind him, expectantly. John gave in and followed.  
  
"As you can see, the facility is state of the art. There are two examination rooms," he punctuated with a swing of his umbrella before striding further down the hall. "A full laboratory, X-ray and fMRI suite," he gestured to doors on opposite sides of the hallway, then stopped in front of a set of double doors, "and a casualty-stroke-operating room." He pushed the doors open with a flourish.  
  
John had to admit, it was impressive. Newer equipment than he'd used at Selly Oak. Full laparoscopy set-up. Plenty of room for nurses to manoeuvre. Very nice indeed.  
  
"You will work primarily on an on-call basis, although there will be some scheduled appointments as well. The salary is in line with the most exclusive private hospitals. Do you have any questions?"  
  
"Why me? Why-"  
  
"You come highly recommended. Further, we need a man of the utmost discretion. I believe the last three years has been a testament to that quality, wouldn't you say?" His lips pulled flat into a smile. "I've already informed my brother of my intent to offer you the position, if that's what you're worried about. He of course wasn't pleased, but agreed that the flexibility of your schedule would be beneficial to him in the foreseeable future."  
  
"I'll need to talk it over with Molly."  
  
"Hmm. Quite." Mycroft's rictus smile flashed into a look of distaste, then dropped back into its normal range of creepy. "I'll expect your decision by tomorrow. Jayne, if you could see Dr. Watson home?"  
  
Mycroft's assistant appeared at John's elbow. She looked up from her Blackberry long enough to smile at Mycroft. "It's not Jayne until 21:00, sir." Her eyes sparkled with the kind of look that would have any other man blushing and stammering. John really didn't want to know.  
  
As it was, Mycroft cleared his throat. "Right." He walked past them. "John," he nodded, then disappeared.  
  
Bettie/ Jayne/ whoever-the-hell-she-was walked out of the room, leaving John to follow.  
  
As soon as the lift reached ground level, his phone chimed a new text.  
  
** Take job. SH **   
  
John was of a mind to call Mycroft and tell him to stuff it just to be contrary. It was tempting though, even if the offer came from Himself. What's more, Sherlock had actually conceded to his brother on this, which was (unfathomable, bizarre, downright bloody unbelievable)  _ significant _ . Still, he would have to at least get Molly's opinion.  
  
When he got home, Molly was lounging on the bed reading a book. He sprawled next to her. "I've been offered a job."  
  
Molly put her book down. "Really?"  
  
John gave her a brief and vague description of the afternoon and then asked her what she thought.  
  
"Take it," she shrugged.  
  
John called Mycroft the next day and accepted the position.  
  
Molly got her old job back at Bart's. She worked an alternating shift, nights one week, days the next. John's schedule was more open-ended. He was usually called in to the clinic under the Diogenes three times a week. He'd arrive and be briefed on the patient, then whisked into the change room to scrub for surgery. In his first month he'd treated various MI5 (and possibly MI6) for gunshots, stab wounds, dislocated joints, repaired a shattered tibia, and removed one bowel obstruction that turned out to be a flash drive containing top secret information.  
  
He was also given a provisional membership to the gym section of the club, which he used at least once a week. On one such occasion he ran into Sherlock in the changing area. John was on his way in after treating a nasty gash that looked like it had been caused by a crude machete. He always had a bit of energy to burn after seeing to a patient and he'd let himself go while living on the coast.  
  
John had just set his gym bag down and was toeing off his street shoes when Sherlock rounded the block of metal lockers, towelling his hair and clad only in a pair of very tight, very short black swim trunks. D&G, John noted absently.  
  
Sherlock pulled up short, one hand still holding the towel to his head. "John?" If John didn't know any better, he would think Sherlock looked the slightest bit embarrassed.  
  
"Yes, hello."  
  
Sherlock went back to towelling his hair. "You didn't mention Mycroft had given you a membership. Explains the leg though." He opened a locker on the opposite side of the aisle and began pulling out toiletries.  
  
"What about my leg?"  
  
"Since you've returned to London it's been getting stronger. Three-odd years of favouring it have weakened the muscles. You might want to try swimming rather than the treadmills though, decreases joint stress."  
  
John bit back an 'I know that, thank you,' and realized immediately how defensive his reaction was. How could he not be, standing next to Sherlock? In the four months they'd lived together, he'd never seen him in anything less than his immaculate suits and ratty pyjamas. John had always imagined he'd be gaunt, all ribs and knobby knees. Of course that wasn't the case. The man had a body like an underwear model.  
  
"Since when do you go to the gym?"  
  
"I like to swim, on occasion."  
  
John made a non-committal sound. He was at a loss as to what to say. He'd just seen Sherlock two days previous, when he'd been called to Baker Street to act as a sounding board. After an hour, Sherlock had had his eureka moment and dashed out, calling out for John to lock up behind him. He'd texted John later with his findings.  
  
"So... Have you got any cases on?"  
  
"Mmm, nothing much at the moment. I do need to stop by Bart's later on. I wanted to study the tensile strength of skin through subcutaneous fat. Molly's been much more amenable to my requests. I suppose I have you thank for that."  
  
"She hadn't mentioned seeing you." John felt a tiny spike of jealousy. It was completely irrational - Molly didn't have a crush on Sherlock any more. Why hadn't she mentioned seeing him? Then again, he hadn't seen much of Molly in the last two months, and when they were both home at the same time, one of them had usually been asleep. Their last conversation, four days ago, had been about the neighbours down the hall and who was going to do the shopping for the week and when.  
  
"Hmm. Well, I'm off. I'll text if anything interesting comes up." Sherlock slung the wet towel over his shoulder and headed toward the showers.  
  
That night, John had a dream about Sherlock's swim trunks and woke up with a raging hard-on. He was glad Molly was at work. Not that she would mind, probably, since they hadn't had sex in ages, but he'd feel weird knowing what had been the motivation behind the act.  
  
He'd had a few dreams about Sherlock that had strayed into erotic territory before. At one time or another, he'd had erotic dreams about almost everyone he knew. They were only dreams, though. He'd usually just roll over and go back to sleep. He tried to will the arousal away, but images of porcelain white skin and water trickling over hard thighs prevented it. He brought himself off quickly and burned with the kind of shame he hadn't felt since he was seventeen and having a wank over Harry's secret girlfriend.  
  
The fact that Sherlock was a man didn't bother him, which he thought should bother him more. His guilt stemmed from masturbating to thoughts of his best friend (who may have been more, once upon a time, when things were different) while in the bed he shared with his partner (who had probably used the same source material for her own fantasies on occasion). There was nothing about the scenario that wasn't fucked up. Life had been much simpler (and more boring) before he'd met Sherlock.  
  
Thankfully, when Sherlock texted John four days later, there wasn't time for John to feel awkward. There was a locked-room murder and a missing six-year-old. The case took three days and ended with the boy's body being found floating in the lake in Danson Park. He didn't tell Molly about it, since she was already fretting over the seven (self-administered) stitches to his forearm and the bruise across his right cheek. She wanted to tend to them and he knew she was perfectly capable, but they were a reminder. Be faster, be smarter, be better. John was thankful that Molly hadn't been the one to do the autopsy.  
  
John finally got around to getting together with Harry just before Christmas. The conversation was civil up until the point where Harry (inevitably) became nosy about his relationship with Molly and how Sherlock fit into it. She insinuated a few things that hit too close to home (Sherlock was emphatically _ not _ his bit on the side) and John made a comment about her supposed sobriety that he wasn't proud of. Harry escalated to calling him a coward for using Molly as a beard and John stormed out.  
  
He set off walking at a brisk pace to cool his anger. By the time he realized he was headed for Baker Street, his leg was ready to give out. He limped the rest of the way and let himself in. He hobbled up the stairs to find the kitchen door open and Sherlock hunched over the table, engrossed in some experiment.  
  
"I take it Harry is skipping her meetings again?" Sherlock didn't look up from the slide he was preparing.  
  
John hobbled into the lounge and fluffed the Union Jack cushion before sitting down in his chair. "She reads into things and since Harriet Watson thinks it to be true, it must be gospel," he said bitterly. "Just because she ruined her marriage doesn't make her an expert on them."  
  
John sat, stewing for another few minutes. "You know what she said?"  
  
"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock mumbled disinterestedly from his position at the microscope.  
  
"She implied that you were my mistress."  
  
Sherlock snorted. "If anything, Molly would hold that title. You spend more time with me than you do her."  
  
"I don't think that's quite how my sister meant it."  
  
Sherlock grunted and fell quiet.  
  
John got up from his chair and walked over to the kitchen. He kept a respectable distance between himself and the detective. "Sherlock," he began, voice softer than he'd intended.  
  
"We don't need to discuss it."  
  
"I really think we do."  
  
"It was a poor judgement on my part." Sherlock's spine was rigid. He refused to look up from the microscope, but John could tell he was watching from the corner of his eye. Sherlock wasn't always as subtle as he thought he was. Or John knew what to look for.  
  
"I think you've made poorer judgements."  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes, just longer than a blink. "John," he began tentatively.  
  
"I just need to  _ know _ . You of all people should understand-"  
  
"I understand perfectly well. You see what you want to see," he said curtly.  
  
"What is that supposed to mean, exactly?" John darted his tongue out to wet his lips.  
  
Sherlock's hands slammed down on the table. He whirled away from the microscope, one hand in his hair and the other on his hip. "You're being deliberately obtuse!" He paced the small space between the cupboards and the hallway.  
  
John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him off.  
  
"Don't try to rationalize your relationship with Molly to me. God knows there's some kind of convoluted logic to it in your tiny little mind."  
  
John felt his anger surge. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock! You had your brother lie to me!"  
  
"To keep you safe, since you insisted on leaving me!"  
  
"I left to-"  
  
"Yes, yes, I know, you were a liability, Saint John the martyr, always sacrificing himself for the greater good." Sherlock was a master at wielding cruelty with surgical precision.  
  
John clenched and unclenched his hands. If he didn't leave now, he would say something that would be sure to end their friendship forever.  
  
Discretion was the better part of valour. He stalked over to the chair and gathered his jacket.  
  
Sherlock followed him, bending down to invade his personal space. "Where are you going, John? You were so intent on having this conversation and now you're leaving? Off to complain to Molly what a heartless bastard Sherlock Holmes is, so she can coo over-"  
  
"Leave Molly out of this! She has nothing to do with this!"  
  
Sherlock let loose a derisive chuckle. "You deluded fool. She has everything to do with this."  
  
There was a knock on the open door, followed by Mrs. Hudson's distinctive "Hoo-hoo."  
  
They both turned to the door.  
  
"Is everything all right, boys?"  
  
"Everything is fine, Mrs. Hudson. John was just leaving," Sherlock said, his voice cold enough to freeze over the Thames.  
  
John pushed past Sherlock and stepped around Mrs. Hudson. He barrelled down the steps and slammed the front door behind him.

John made his way into Regent's Park. He walked until he began to feel his leg throb, then found a bench and stared out over the lake. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, but his fingers and toes had long gone numb.  
  
John barely took notice when someone sat at the other end of the bench. He kept his eyes trained on the water, unwilling to share pleasantries with a stranger. After a few minutes, the person got up and brushed past him.  
  
John got up some time later, intent on going home. As he stood, something fell from his lap and clinked onto the pavement. He bent down and picked up a set of dog tags, one of which was missing its silencer. He read the name and sat heavily back down on the bench. They were his. The last time he'd seen them, they'd been tucked into the small box that contained his medals, which he kept inside his sock drawer at Baker Street.  
  
The stranger on the bench had been Sherlock, then. John didn't understand. He took out his phone and opened a blank text. He stared at it, unsure of what exactly he wanted to ask. Finally, he typed out one word ( ** Why? ** ) and sent it.  
  
He pressed the phone to his lips and waited for a reply. Ages passed and all too soon the phone vibrated against his mouth. He took a deep breath and thumbed open the text.  
  
** Good luck charm. Thought you would want them back.  **   
  
For once, Sherlock hadn't signed the text with his initials.  
  
John pondered the meaning of the text. Sherlock didn't believe in luck or sentimentality, or so John had thought for years. Was it possible that he was wrong? He studied the tags. When John had packed them away, they'd been on a different chain and both silencers had been in tact. The remaining silencer bore tiny dents that looked like teeth marks.  
  
John gripped the tags tight enough for them to dig uncomfortably into his palm. Sherlock didn't take John's tags with him around the world. He didn't wear them under his shirt and take them out to worry between his teeth in lieu of a cigarette. He didn't, he wouldn't, that wasn't like him.  
  
John tipped his head back against the bench and squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn't what he wanted it to be. Sherlock was just twisting the knife, because he could be terrible like that. But he was only that cruel when he was hurt by something. Hurt by John.  
  
So was this a peace offering or a goodbye?  
  
For all John knew, there could be boxes of old jumpers and pants arriving at Gower Street that very minute. No, Sherlock wouldn't bother with that. He'd just let everything sit in John's old room until he'd found a new flatmate, then make them deal with cleaning out the space.  
  
Why hadn't Sherlock got a new flatmate? They'd only been back for four months, maybe he just hadn't found anyone yet. Had he been keeping the room for John? Had Sherlock been...  _ pining _ ?  
  
If that were true, the same could be said for John. He hadn't taken anything from his old bedroom. He hadn't even been upstairs, even though he'd been to the flat numerous times. Why hadn't he? It would have been the courteous thing to do. There hadn't been anything there he'd needed, really. He'd liked knowing he had a few changes of clothes for when cases ran long, even if he hadn't actually worn any of them. 

It was more than that. The thought of his presence being entirely erased from the flat made his gut clench uncomfortably.  
  
John didn't know what to do. Was he finally having the sexuality crisis he should have had when Sherlock had kissed him the first time? No, this was deeper than the fact that Sherlock had the same basic equipment as he did. John had never been too attached to any identity, even before assuming the role of Jared Morstan. He'd always just been a person. A doctor and a soldier and a son and a brother, but always just John first.  
  
No, this was a crisis of where his deepest loyalties lay. Three and a half years with Molly was a lot to just throw away. Molly was comfortable and safe. Sherlock was exciting and dangerous. How long could something with Sherlock last? How long until Sherlock finally realized that John was plain and ordinary and grew bored of him? And when it did end, John would be alone again.  
  
He'd been wrestling with these same thoughts ever since Sherlock showed up on his doorstep, and he had to make a choice. Most decisions were easy for John -- assess and react. He didn't tend to over-think things. Sitting here and spinning his wheels wasn't getting him any closer to finding out what it was that he really wanted.  
  
John got up from the bench and walked toward the park exit. He paused outside Baker Street station, then kept walking. His leg was still stiff from the cold, but the pain had receded. He looked up at the window of 221B and saw Sherlock silhouetted against the curtains, swaying slowly with his violin. John used his key again and went up the stairs as quietly as he could.  
  
He leaned against the door jamb and listened to Sherlock play. It was something familiar and melancholy, a mid-tempo beat... ' _Heroes_.' Sherlock Holmes was playing a David Bowie song. The song warbled and segued into another song John didn't recognize. The song ended and Sherlock let his bow drop to his side and removed the violin from under his chin. He was still faced away from the door. John heard Sherlock's breath hitch and saw the man's shoulders begin to shake as he lifted the violin and the bow once more. John never realized how frail Sherlock could look in just his shirtsleeves. John listened for another minute, then forced himself to speak.  
  
"Is that _Bohemian Rhapsody_?"  
  
Sherlock spun around. "John?"  
  
John walked into the room, stopping just in front of Sherlock. Sherlock stood frozen. His eyes were red and glossy, and John felt his own tears threaten.  
  
Sherlock nodded a belated answer to John's question, pulling the violin down from his chin.  
  
"And the one before that?"  
  
"The Man Who Sold The World." Sherlock transferred the bow to his left hand and wiped his eyes, fingertips just dabbing at the corners.  
  
"I didn't know you could actually play."  
  
Sherlock sighed and looked away. "Why are you here, John?"  
  
John took the dog tags from his pocket. He took a breath to steel himself and swallowed down how completely silly he felt. He stood on his tiptoes and lowered the chain over Sherlock's head. Sherlock stood still and closed his eyes as the tags slid over his nose.  
  
John felt his heart pounding in his throat. _Now or never_. He slipped his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and tugged while leaning forward. Sherlock's eyes flew open a split second before their lips met.  
  
It wasn't a perfect kiss, John still only managed to get part of Sherlock's bottom lip and the corner of his mouth, but Sherlock quickly corrected that.  
  
They kissed for no more than a minute. John mumbled against Sherlock's lips, "You're too bloody tall."  
  
Sherlock chuckled and backed John away from the window, setting his violin and bow on the desk while never breaking the kiss. Sherlock put one hand on the back of John's head and the other he tentatively slid around John's waist. John gripped Sherlock's biceps.  
  
He pulled back enough to say "I'm not the girl, here," and twisted them so Sherlock's back was to the door. John guided him around the coffee table and gave him a gentle push onto the sofa while discarding his winter coat.  
  
Sherlock sat with his shoulder propped against the back cushion, his body sort of wedged in the corner. One bare foot was planted on the middle cushion with his knee in the air, the other foot flat on the floor. John balanced with a knee between Sherlock's thighs, straddling Sherlock's leg. He gripped the back of the couch with one hand and insinuated the other behind Sherlock's head. Sherlock's hands bracketed his sides low on his ribcage  
  
John wasted no more time and dove in for another kiss. Sherlock's mouth moved against John's slowly, almost sluggish. John tilted his head and darted his tongue into Sherlock's mouth.  
  
Sherlock pulled his head back and turned his face away just enough to break the contact of their lips. John went to work on his neck, kissing and sucking and running his tongue over the tendon.  
  
"Christ, John, slow down. It's not a race."  
  
John shifted his weight more from his arms to his knee and leaned his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. He realized he may have been over-compensating, becoming more aggressive because Sherlock was a man. No, not only that. Sherlock was more than John in so many ways - taller, smarter, posh. Those qualities in a woman were a turn-on, but with Sherlock, it felt more like a challenge. John realized he had been trying to establish dominance.  
  
He exhaled against Sherlock's collarbone. "'M sorry," he mumbled into the skin.  
  
Sherlock sighed and tilted his head back against the couch cushion. "I should have known this would be an issue."  
  
John pulled back, withdrawing his hand from Sherlock's neck. It was a terrible idea. He didn't know what he was doing, he was out of his depth. Still, he found himself unwilling to cede control and let Sherlock lead. It had to be that Sherlock was a man; John had always liked it when a woman took charge in the bedroom.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, shifting his weight to the foot still on the floor, getting ready to heft himself off the sofa and flee. 

John Watson, who ran headlong into enemy fire on a daily basis, who thought nothing of grabbing a madman while strapped into a vest with enough Semtex to take out half a block of flats, etcetera, etcetera, was terrified at the prospect of kissing the man he was very probably in love with. If he left now, maybe he could find a way to salvage things. Go back to sidestepping the issue and avoiding Sherlock unless there was a case on. It could work.  
  
Sherlock's hands tightened on his sides, holding him in place. "Stop saying you're sorry," he said, frustrated.  
  
"I just... I don't... What I mean to say is, I've never-"  _ thought that this would actually happen, felt this way about a man, cheated on any of my girlfriends... _   
  
"I know, John. It's blindingly obvious."  
  
"Cheers, Sherlock. Thanks for that," John said, just this side of sarcastic.  
  
Sherlock tipped his head forward again. "Do you trust me?"  
  
"What? Yes, of course. With my life."  
  
"Then why are you making this difficult?" Sherlock's hand shifted on John's side, a caress. "Would you prefer we were in the bedroom?"  
  
John thought about it. The door to the flat was still wide open. Mrs. Hudson was no doubt ready for her evening soother, so she wouldn't interrupt them. Only two of the lamps were on in the lounge and curtains were drawn, but he still felt  _exposed_ .  
  
Sherlock watched him carefully, his expression guarded. John nodded slightly, then again, more sure. He levered himself up and Sherlock stood. Sherlock headed through the open kitchen doors, pausing to watch John toe off his shoes. He disappeared through the far door and into his bedroom. John followed, hesitating at the threshold for a moment.  
  
Everything inside was more or less the way he'd remembered it from years ago, not that he'd been in there often. Sherlock had always left the door open, unless he'd been sleeping or getting dressed. The walls were still the same shade of robin's egg blue, the double bed was still pushed into the far corner as if it was an afterthought, and the same wardrobe with the warped door that didn't close properly was still in the same spot. The books and papers and old computer equipment were still stacked up against the free space along the skirting board. A pile of laundry (most likely dirty, although he wasn't sure) sat near the foot of the bed. The room smelled faintly of cigarettes and formaldehyde, along with the base male scent of Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock was already lying on the bed on his right side, head propped on one elbow. His other arm was across his chest, hand pressed flat to the duvet. He was halfway between the centre and the wall, giving John enough room to lie comfortably if he stayed close to Sherlock. His face looked equally nervous and longing under the usual mask of calm indifference.  
  
John sat on the bed, then turned himself and lie facing Sherlock, mirroring his position. Sherlock's hand covered his and he leaned into John for a kiss. It was a gentle press of lips, testing the waters.  
  
John closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. It was much better like this, side by side, equal. The kisses stayed slow and sweet, exploratory. John pulled back and slid his arm through the gap made by Sherlock's elbow. They resettled themselves so Sherlock's arm was under his. Sherlock threw one gangly leg over John's, drawing it to rest between his thighs, but not high enough to bring their hips into contact. John's hand on Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock's hand just above the curve of John's hip.  
  
They kissed again. Sherlock sucked John's bottom lip into his mouth, running his tongue ever-so-lightly against it. John reciprocated, then teased the tip of Sherlock's tongue with his own. Sherlock toyed with John's hair, while his left hand moved gently along John's side. John traced his fingertips over Sherlock's long neck, then cupped the back of his head. He ran his thumb over Sherlock's earlobe and the man shivered.  
  
John mumbled against his lips, "Like that, do you?" with fond amusement.  
  
Sherlock rolled his hips forward to connect with John's. "Don't ask stupid questions," he said, nipping John's bottom lip with his teeth. His erection brushed against John's hipbone, hot even through layers of wool and cotton.  
  
John went breathless with the strong wave of arousal that washed through him. He'd been interested in the proceedings up until that point, but only half-hard. He kissed Sherlock with more urgency, rubbing his earlobe a few more times for good measure, then trailed his fingers back down his neck and over his collarbones. He kept going, moving down the V made by the two buttons that Sherlock always refused to do up.  
  
Sherlock removed his hand from John's side and John had a moment of panic that he'd gone too far, too fast, but then Sherlock began to flick open the buttons of his own shirt. He stopped at the last button above the waistband of his trousers and returned his hand to John's hip, using his fingers to inch John's shirts up far enough to touch the bare skin of his back.  
  
John ran his fingers down the line of Sherlock's newly exposed chest, feeling the hard muscle and bone under smooth, nearly hairless skin. He remembered the only other time he'd touched a man's chest in a sexual context, and how considerably different Sherlock's sparse hair was to Murray's rug. He slipped his hand inside the shirt, skimming over taut abs and obliques, enjoying the feel of skin and muscle twitching as Sherlock tried to wriggle away from the contact.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes. Ticklish," he giggled.  
  
Sherlock chuckled, a rich baritone that John could feel vibrate in his own chest. John kissed him again and, instead of teasing with his fingertips, he kneaded the muscles. He pulled Sherlock even closer so their bodies were flush, and slid his leg higher between Sherlock's thighs.  
  
Sherlock hummed low in his throat and pushed John over onto his back, then kissed a trail down his neck as he unbuttoned John's shirt. He pushed up the t-shirt that John wore underneath and ran lips and teeth and tongue over John's chest, then mouthed at his nipple. John couldn't suppress the surge of his hips or his gasp of pleasure. His nipples had always been a major erogenous zone. Sherlock flicked his tongue over it, then worried it with his teeth. The feeling went straight to John's cock.  
  
John scrabbled to push Sherlock's shirt off his shoulders, intent on getting to more skin. Sherlock rocked back on his knees and pulled his arms the rest of the way out of the sleeves, then tossed the shirt to the floor. He knelt on the bed, just looking.  
  
Did he like what he saw? John had never had body issues. Well, maybe a bit about his height, when he was young and always the shortest kid in his year, but he'd let go of that ages ago. He'd gained some weight while living with Molly, but he'd lost most of the extra padding since being back in London. Still, at forty-two, his metabolism wasn't what it had been and his middle was still soft and rounded over the muscles beneath. He'd never been shy about disrobing in front of other men before, nor in front of the women he'd slept with. Then again, none of them were as critical as Sherlock could be.  
  
Sherlock saw everything, catalogued every tiny flaw, and stored it away for reference. The man kept himself in excellent shape. He knew exactly what clothes to wear to cut a stylish profile. He had the qualities of an Aesthetic, although John had never heard him remark on the physical appearance of any given person beyond what information it provided on them. John had no idea as to Sherlock's tastes and preferences in potential partners, but he'd always assumed he would be attracted to nothing less than perfection.  
  
John's eyes flicked to Sherlock's trousers and back up to his face in an unconscious attempt to gauge Sherlock's level of interest. If the tent pole he was sporting was anything to go by, he wasn't repulsed. Sherlock's eyes were hooded and hard to read, but his breaths were quick and shallow through his parted lips. It was enough to be going on.  
  
John sat up and stripped off his shirt. Sherlock went for the hem of John's t-shirt; John raised his arms so it could be pulled over his head. Sherlock cast it away and leaned in to kiss him again, wet and dirty and with intent. His fingers skimmed over John's belly, past the slight crease at his navel, down to the button of his jeans. 

Sherlock hesitated. John broke the kiss and leaned back, freeing the button and zip as he did so. Sherlock wasted no time and hooked his fingers in the waistband of John's pants, then tugged them along with his jeans down over his hips. John elevated his pelvis to let the fabric slide the rest of the way off. Sherlock had definitely done this before, since he knew exactly the right way to ease them over John's erection without snagging it. Sherlock then made short work of getting the jeans off John's legs. He paused to strip the socks off John's feet. He backed off the bed and stood, quickly undoing his own trousers and letting them drop.  
  
John scooted back, pulling down the duvet as he went. He resettled on his side in the spot Sherlock had started out in. Sherlock slid in next to him and they arranged themselves around each other. The reversal in position worked much better, as now both their dominant hands were free. It was startling when Sherlock's cock bumped against his for the first time, this time without layers of clothing between them. He pushed his hips closer so they were nestled snug together, trapped between Sherlock's tight abs and John's stomach. John gripped the prominent curve of Sherlock's hipbone. Sherlock's arm was pinned under John's, bent at the elbow and gripping his shoulder.  
  
They kissed as their bodies rocked together, but it wasn't enough friction. John wedged his hand between them and ran his fingertips along the line of Sherlock's pubic hair. It was of a finer, softer texture than his own. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock, who shuddered and groaned. John's rhythm was slow and his touch light as he got used to the feel of a cock other than his own in his hand. Sherlock thrust into the circle of his fist, gasping and breaking the kiss to mouth John's neck and earlobe.  
  
A minute later, Sherlock panted, "Wait, wait," into John's shoulder. John stopped moving his hand, but circled his thumb over the head, spreading the moisture around. Sherlock grunted and rolled away. He levered himself out of bed and padded across the room to the wardrobe. John took the time to admire the view of Sherlock's retreating form.  
  
John had always considered himself more of a breast man, but this was fine. More than fine. Brilliant. You could bounce a fifty pence off of Sherlock's arse. John had seen many a man's backside in his day and never felt any sort of primal reaction. Then again, Sherlock's was a sight to behold. Round and hard-muscled, no softness about it. His eyes traced the contours of Sherlock's back, starting with the divot where all the major muscle groups met just above that luscious arse, past the narrow waist and the flare of ribcage, over the wings of his shoulder blades, finally resting on those slim, square shoulders. Sherlock turned back to the bed, a tube of something in his hand. He tossed it on the bed and John picked it up.  
  
It was some sort of lotion, expensive and most probably French. John flipped the cap and sniffed. It smelled creamy and faintly of coconut. He looked up to Sherlock, who was sliding back under the covers.  
  
"Mrs. Hudson gave it to me. My skin gets dry in the wintertime."  
  
"Never, ever talk about Mrs. Hudson when we're in bed," John dead-panned. He'd almost said 'our landlady,' but had caught himself. That was something they would need to discuss later. Much later, as all he wanted to do now was snog the life out of Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock smiled and lay back, pulling John half on top of him. John made to roll onto his side, but Sherlock had his arm around John's back and tightened his hold.  
  
John swallowed. Sherlock hadn't brought over any condoms. "What, ehm, what do you want, exactly?"  
  
Instead of answering, Sherlock manhandled John to lay between his thighs. He took the tube of lotion still clutched in John's hand and flipped it open. He squeezed a generous amount into his palm and wrapped it around John's cock, then shifted himself enough to grab his own along with John's. Everything was hot and slippery and wonderful. John kissed along Sherlock's jaw and ground down with his hips.  
  
"John, your hand," Sherlock whispered urgently into his temple.  
  
John balanced on his left shoulder and worked his right between them. It was a little awkward, what with naturally being left-handed, but he laced his fingers with Sherlock's and it worked well enough. Sherlock threw his head back, panting. His heels dug into the mattress and he thrust up into their joined hands.  
  
John's mouth sought Sherlock's neck. He nipped and sucked, feeling the low groans and breathy gasps with his lips. John had assumed that Sherlock would be just as passionate and unreserved in bed as he was about cases and God, was he right. The noises he made were criminal.  
  
Sherlock's left hand scrabbled along his back, fingertips digging in. He dragged them up to John's shoulder, hard to the point of being painful, causing John to thrust down against Sherlock harder. Sherlock combed through John's hair, tugging at the longer strands along his nape. John had never been more pleased with his current hairstyle.  
  
Sherlock surged against him, half-pleading, half-ordering, "Kiss me, kiss me," his lips moving frantically over John's temple. John obliged and tilted his head enough to slot his mouth against Sherlock's. Sherlock kissed wildly, moving his hand from John's scalp to grab his arse roughly, pulling John's hips as close to him as he possibly could. Sherlock held his breath and grimaced against John's mouth. The hand interlaced with John's tightened and Sherlock's cock jerked against his; he felt the first splatter of semen hit his belly. Sherlock exhaled a deep groan, similar to the noise he made when the nicotine from multiple patches hit his system.  
  
When the intensity of Sherlock's orgasm receded, he kissed John languorously, eyes closed and smiling against John's lips. John was so close himself that he let Sherlock's hand slip downward to fondle his balls while he shifted and switched hands, then brought himself off almost silently with a few rough strokes. He lowered himself fully over Sherlock and nuzzled into his neck, feeling Sherlock's pulse thrumming beneath his lips. Sherlock's hands smoothed over his back, more gentle than John had imagined he would be in the afterglow. They shared lazy kisses before John rolled off Sherlock and onto his back.  
  
They lay shoulder to shoulder for a few moments, then Sherlock turned onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. He trailed his fingertips through the sticky mess of John's pubic hair and stomach while watching John's face. John brought his hand up to card through Sherlock's wild curls and tried to tell him everything he wasn't ready to say yet with his eyes.  
  
Apparently, it was enough to mollify Sherlock. He threw an arm around John's torso and a leg over his thighs after wedging his arm behind John's neck and resting his head on the round part of John's shoulder. John rubbed Sherlock's arm. He was surprised that Sherlock was a cuddler. A wildcat in bed, yes, and he'd been right about that, but he wouldn't have imagined the man to be so pliant and still beside him.  
  
John let himself drop into a light doze. After the emotional roller coaster he'd been on today, he deserved it. He awoke a short time later to Sherlock's lips running along his bad shoulder.  
  
Once, just after he'd moved in, Sherlock had asked to see his scar. John had felt weird about it at the time, knowing that Sherlock was just doing it as an exercise in deduction, but had given in on the condition that Sherlock wasn't allowed to touch it. It had all been very anti-climactic. John had removed his shirt and Sherlock had studied first the front, then the back. He hadn't rattled off the whole scenario as John had expected. He'd just made a non-committal noise and had told John he could put his shirt back on. At the time, John had just thought that Sherlock had found it less interesting than he'd expected, but now he wondered if it wasn't Sherlock actually displaying a modicum of tact.  
  
They kissed again, just for the sake of kissing. After all, neither of them were that young any more. It would be an hour or two until John was ready for a second go. Within minutes, Sherlock's eyes began to droop and his mouth slackened as it moved against John's.  
  
"Are you falling asleep?" John chuckled.  
  
Sherlock cracked one eye and glared, causing John to burst into laughter. Sherlock rolled onto his opposite side with a huff, taking John's arm with him. John spooned up behind him, still giggling while tucking his legs in behind Sherlock's knees. 

It wasn't often that John slept naked. For the last ten years, he'd had to be ready for anything at a moment's notice, so he'd always slept in at least pants and a t-shirt. He felt comfortable though, safe enough tucked between Sherlock and the wall. It was nice.  
  
He was woken again in the small hours of the morning by Sherlock, only this time it was to him slipping out from under his arm.  
  
"It's alright, John, go back to sleep," he murmured.  
  
"What time is it?"  
  
"Almost five."  
  
John sat up. "Shit. I should go. Molly's shift is over at six."  
  
Sherlock tensed. "Right."  
  
"Do you mind if I grab a shower before I head off?"  
  
"No, that's fine," Sherlock said. He got up and pulled on his pyjama bottoms. He walked stiffly from the room and John heard him filling the kettle as he grabbed his own scattered clothing from the floor.  
  
Sherlock was upset. John knew he had to talk to him, make him understand that the Molly situation was a delicate one and it didn't have to effect this new development in their relationship. He couldn't just drop everything and move back into Baker Street. There were messy, complicated things to be done like dividing up possessions, and packing, and paperwork for the flat and utilities, and closing the joint bank account, and actually breaking it to Molly. Even though last night's drama could have easily been something out of a romance film, real life was full of wheels within wheels.  
  
John washed away the evidence and quickly inspected himself in the mirror for marks. Thankfully, Sherlock had had the sense not to leave any. There was a bruise over John's hipbone that could have been (most likely was) from Sherlock's sharp hip, but it could be easily explained away by the corner of a table should Molly ask.  
  
When John returned downstairs, he found Sherlock curled in his chair with a mug of tea. John's jacket had been moved from the floor onto the arm of the sofa and his mobile sat on top of it. He picked up the phone to double check there hadn't been any messages sent or received since last night.  
  
"I didn't use it. It was on the floor of the bedroom." Sherlock's tone was too light and John read a hint of bitterness in it.  
  
"I didn't say that you did. I just wanted to make sure I didn't miss any calls or texts from Molly." John kept his voice neutral. The last bit may have been a low blow, but he was annoyed that Sherlock had picked up on his paranoia.  
  
Sherlock flinched at the name and drank from his mug to cover it. An uneasy silence fell.  
  
John sighed. "I've got to go. Text me later if a case comes up. I have a follow-up on a knee reconstruction later, so if I don't answer right away..." John pocketed his mobile and put on his jacket.  
  
"Yes, fine."  
  
"Sherlock..." John trailed off, unsure of what he could say to reassure Sherlock (and himself) that they'd work through all the complicated bits, just not now.  
  
"Nothing's changed, John. Go home." His voice was even, but he didn't make eye contact.  
  
"Right. Well... Be seeing you then."  
  
Sherlock made dismissive noise and waved him away, which wasn't all that unusual as a form of goodbye for him.  
  
John walked home. He tried out different scenarios for breaking it off with Molly. The worst part of it was that he didn't want to split from her. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too and it was despicable. He'd known men like that, the kind who strung two girls along at the same time, and he'd always thought they were selfish bastards for not being honest. Now  _ he _ was one of those selfish bastards and he hated himself for it.  
  
There was no going back with Sherlock. Of course, neither of them had  _ said _ anything, not the kind of words that mean anything, but it happened. John didn't want it to be a one-time-only thing. He'd already lived a life without Sherlock and he'd rather not contemplate returning to that.  
  
Molly got home just before seven, dragging a huge cardboard box behind her. When he asked her about it, she beamed.  
  
"One of the nurses in the terminal section just moved into a new flat with her boyfriend, and they were consolidating things, you know, and I'd mentioned at some point we hadn't put up any decorations, and well, she offered, and I said why not? I know they're second-hand and a bit dated, but I thought it might be a laugh." She opened the box and picked out a tacky silver tinsel wreath and gave it a shake to illustrate, grinning. "My Mum's invited us around, but I told her I wasn't sure of your schedule and I have to work Christmas Eve, what with all the suicides that come in."  
  
John's resolve melted. He wouldn't want to spoil her Christmas. Her work would be depressing enough without John ruining it.  
  
"No, yeah, that's fine. We can go, if you want."  
  
John went into work. He went shopping for presents. He went home. He slept. He woke up when Molly left for work. He checked his phone, one text from and unknown number.  
  
** Have you told her yet? SH **   
  
He texted Sherlock's phone with a sinking feeling in his gut.  
  
** After Christmas. Two weeks. JW **   
  
He waited for the next text to come. It didn't. He made himself tea and toast and settled on the sofa with his laptop. He opened a new document file and began typing. He hadn't bothered with the blog since he'd been back in London, but had been keeping write-ups for Sherlock's cases anyway. Molly never read them, claiming she didn't want to know what happened.

  
Christmas came and went without word from Sherlock. Molly hadn't been feeling up to seeing her parents after she'd had to autopsy a 40-something single woman who'd been dead for days and chewed on by her cats. It had been a quiet suicide, just a bottle of prescription painkillers and a glass of wine. They'd cuddled in bed while Molly blubbered that she'd known she'd get at least one to upset her, but this one could have been her, if things hadn't been different. She'd fallen asleep against him.  
  
John sent Sherlock a text on the 27th, saying simply that they had to talk. John had come to the decision that he couldn't leave Molly, not now. The timing just wasn't right.  
  
Sherlock met him in a coffee shop near the Diogenes. He took the chair opposite John without a word of greeting.  
  
They sat and studied each other. Well, John studied Sherlock, since Sherlock had probably observed all he needed to know from just one glance. John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock how he'd been, but he was cut off.  
  
"Don't bother to ask. You haven't left her out of a sense of obligation for her emotional well-being. You feel guilty. I'm willing to forgo a physical relationship in exchange for your continued assistance on cases, thereby allowing you a clean conscience, while I get the benefit of your knowledge and perspective. Does that sound fair?" Sherlock's eyes had the same intensity they took on when negotiating his way into a crime scene.  
  
John agreed to Sherlock's terms. It was a stop-gap solution for both of them, but the only one that might work out for everyone involved.  
  
Sherlock didn't text John to come along on a case with him until almost a full month later, although he sent sporadic emails and texts to bounce the odd idea off John every few days or so. The case was simple (by Sherlock's standards), if not bizarre -- an heiress stood up at the altar by a missing fiancé who turned out be her illegitimate half-brother. They cornered him and the man threatened to expose the whole sordid tale. Sherlock let him get away.  
  
They argued over it across the table at Angelo's. John couldn't believe Sherlock had let the man go. Sherlock countered that it was in the client's best interest. She stood to lose half her fortune and her social standing and, quite probably, her mind. John could see his point, since it was an especially sordid tale. John still had a hard time believing empathy was Sherlock's prime motivator.  
  
"People change, John," was all he offered on the subject before lapsing into silence.  
  
Less than two weeks later, Sherlock texted with yet another case of a jilted lover, this time suspected infidelity. John wasn't left with much time to wonder if there was a theme to the cases Sherlock asked for his assistance on, as the adultery bit ended up being overshadowed by the wife's involvement with a ring of jewel thieves. Sherlock had probably only taken the case because he'd suspected something all along.  
  
Within hours, Lestrade began phoning with reports of bodies turning up, the whole ring being taken out one by one. They found the last one left alive and gave chase while waiting for Lestrade's team to show up (since it was now officially a multiple homicide investigation and the jurisdiction had shifted from that weasel Dimmock to him), which eventually ended in John tackling the suspect into Camden Lock. Of course, Lestrade showed up just in time to watch John flounder out of the water while Sherlock ignored him in favour of his phone. Then he was being bundled into a taxi with the promise of a statement as soon as he got warm and dry.  
  
Gower Street was closer than Baker, so the taxi dropped them there. Molly was home, early shift this week, sprawled on the sofa. He barely acknowledged her in his haste to get to the shower. He wasn't severely hypothermic yet, but his thoughts were a bit jumbled and walking felt a little funny, so he knew he was well on his way. He stepped under the lukewarm shower and hissed as the water burned his chilled skin. He recited the ABC's to himself and turned the water a little hotter, then did it once more. 

He heard Molly shouting over the noise of the shower. Of course Sherlock had said something to her to get her going. And when she started with a row, she could shout the bloody house down. All he wanted was a damn warm shower, was that too much to ask?  
  
He grabbed a towel and slung it about his waist, then stormed down the hallway to the lounge. "What the  _ hell _ is going on out here?"  
  
And then Molly's anger turned on him, and he tried to explain, and she refused to listen. Then a text from Lestrade to Sherlock and the chase was back on. He hurried to get dressed and Molly came after him, raging. He wanted to get her calm, but he had to go.  
  
Then she threw down the gauntlet. Go with Sherlock now and never come back. He deliberated a moment, but in the end, the case won out. He'd explain it all to Molly later, in detail and in a way that she'd understand. She stormed out of the bedroom and was gone by the time he returned to the lounge. Sherlock, for his part, didn't say a word.  
  
They went to Blackfriars Bridge and caught the buyer. They followed Lestrade back to Scotland Yard to give their statements. Donovan took his, typing while he talked. She printed out a copy and had him sign it. Sherlock and Lestrade were still in the interrogation room with the buyer.  
  
He jumped when Donovan waved a hand in front of his face. He must have been staring off into space.  
  
"You look like you need coffee. Come on, up you get. I'm surprised Freak even gave you a chance to dry off." He followed behind her, vaguely noticing she'd removed her heels and was wearing a pair of sheepskin-lined clogs. Molly had a similar pair.  
  
Shit. Molly.  
  
He excused himself, "Just one second," and lingered in the hallway while Donovan went into the break room to put on a pot of coffee. He dialled Molly's phone, but it went straight to voicemail. He tried the house line, but rung off when the answerphone picked up. He wasn't going to leave some pathetic, rambling message.  
  
He trudged into the small, familiar room. Donovan hummed as she poured the coffee. She set it in front of him, along with a handful of sugar packets and creamers. She took hers black, which didn't surprise him. He'd known women like her in the Army. Any small thing they could do to prove they were tough. Come to think of it, he was surprised she didn't smoke.  
  
"I did, when I was a teenager, but I didn't like it very much. Just a way to blend in, yeah?"  
  
Oh. He wondered how much of that he'd said out loud.  
  
"Hey, you feelin' okay?"  
  
"Bit knackered, that's all. Thanks."  
  
Donovan nodded and drank more of her coffee.  
  
"Sally, can I ask you something?"  
  
She looked uncomfortable, but replied, "Go ahead."  
  
"What, uh, what happened to Anderson? I noticed he hasn't been on forensics at any of the scenes I've been to."  
  
"Transferred to Manchester two years ago. Not really a big secret why."  
  
"Sorry. I hadn't heard anything and Sherlock hadn't mentioned it..."  
  
Sally waved it off. "He's got a little one now, with the wife. I'm glad for him. You going to have kids with yours, you think?" Her eyes widened. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry or anythin'."  
  
"No, it's fine. We've been trying for a few months, on and off. Probably a good thing that nothing came of it. She asked me to leave tonight."  
  
"Oh. I'm sorry." She paused and swirled her coffee around the mug. "Well, you've always got the Freak, I suppose." She was trying for levity, but she had no idea how close to the mark she'd actually hit.  
  
At length, she continued. "We had a memorial for him, you know. None of us really even liked him, but we did it anyway, since there was no funeral. I remember wishin' we could invite you. Wondered what had happened to you, really, since they didn't report you as dead either. I was actually happy when Lestrade called a meeting to tell us that Sherlock wasn't dead and the bombing case was closed. He came back different though, didn't he?"  
  
"Guess you could say that."  
  
"So.. Do you want to talk about it? I mean, I know we're not really friends or anythin', but I've had my share of breakups and you seem like a nice enough bloke..."  
  
"Nothing to talk about, really. She told me I had to chose between her and doing this." John shrugged. He didn't know why he was telling Sally. Maybe he just needed an ear to listen and it was too late to go drown himself at a pub. He just had to be careful about details.  
  
"Kinda thought so -- I've had that conversation more times than I can count. 'S easier to just not get involved at all, not that that helps you much right now. I made my own choices a long time ago. But if you really want the wife and kids, you should try to make it work."  
  
Sherlock's clear voice sounded from the doorway. "I'm finished here and, if Sally's done playing Agony Aunt, we can go now, John. I've already called a taxi."  
  
John gave Sally a smile and stood. He followed after Sherlock, who had already disappeared down the hallway.  
  
"Good luck," she called after him.  
  
Sherlock waited until they were out of the building to question John on what he was going to do next. He added, "She'll take you back, you know."  
  
"And if I don't want to go back?"  
  
"Your room is just as you left it."  
  
John wasn't sure what Sherlock meant. Was he leaving things open-ended to accommodate John, or was he telling him that he wasn't amenable to sharing a bed again?  
  
"What would you do?"  
  
Sherlock looked away, presumably scanning the street for the taxi. "I wouldn't have got into the situation to begin with."  
  
They fell silent. The taxi pulled up and Sherlock made no move toward it. John opened the door and stood back. "Aren't you coming?"  
  
"No, it's a nice morning. I think I'll take a bit of a walk." He turned and strode off.  
  
John got in the cab, feeling like he'd just been dumped twice in one night. He would go back home and collect some of his things, then maybe call Harry to see if he could use her sofa for a night.  
  
When he got home, Molly was there in the lounge, already packing his things. He knew that his was his one last chance to make things right, really right, between them.  
  
She took him back. They compromised their schedules. He turned down the first few cases Sherlock invited him on, but returned the emails and text messages just as he had before. John was called into the Diogenes one evening to find a moderately concussed Sherlock in a chair in the reception area, along with a near-dead member of the Greek Parliament (his disappearance was all over the news) in the operating room.  
  
He barked an order for someone to keep an eye on Sherlock while he attended to the man on the table. It was terrible - the man had been missing for weeks and had obviously been repeatedly tortured. His left leg was necrotic up to the thigh and his whole body was septic. There was nothing John could do. John gave him half an hour, maybe a little more, before his heart failed. He had Mycroft summoned immediately. Mycroft grimaced when he entered the room, but quickly recovered and began speaking to the man in flawless Greek. John had no way of knowing what was being said, but was ushered out of the room quickly by Mycroft's assistant. 

He went back out to the reception room, where Sherlock had been engaged in a lively one-sided conversation with the impassive nurse that must have drawn the short straw to mind him.  
  
John struggled Sherlock out of the chair, waving away the nurse's attempt to help. When they passed Mycroft's assistant, he twisted around and addressed her. "Janet! Sorry about vomiting all over your shoes! Ow," he grimaced, clutching his head.  
  
John answered the woman's tight smile with an apologetic one of his own as he shuffled Sherlock into the exam room.  
  
"So her name's Janet today?" John asked in a bid to keep him talking.  
  
"It's Thursday." That was a good sign, at least he knew what day it was. "The names always change on Thursday. Janet Leigh, the Scream Queen. Mycroft picks them because he's a pervert and has a thing for black-and-white starlets. I caught him tossing off to  _ The Philadelphia Story _ when I was eight. It did irreparable psychological damage."  
  
"Thank you for that image. I'm think you've succeeded in scarring me for life now, too." He flashed his pen light across Sherlock's pupils. Both reacted, although the left a bit more slowly than the right.  
  
"Misery loves company.  _ I'm _ miserable, John.  _ Mis _ erable." He drew the word out. "I'm miserable because I love you and you don't see it. Well, you see it, but you don't observe. Or you ignore it because it makes you uncomfortable. You're so English, stiff upper lip, keeping calm and carrying on and I don't know how you can do it. How can you? I wish I were stupider so I could do it. It would be like a holiday at the seaside. Although I dislike the ocean..."  
  
He continued to prattle on, but John's brain had stopped at 'I love you.' And of course, it didn't mean anything, it was the concussion talking. He'd had soldiers tell him the same thing in all earnestness. Something about head injuries made medical professionals into objects of adoration. He probably hadn't even meant it in a romantic sense. John pushed the thought from his mind and concentrated on Sherlock's diagnosis.  
  
John palpated the goose-egg on Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock whined. The skin wasn't split and the skull didn't seem to be fractured.  
  
"John? John, why aren't you listening to me?"  
  
"I'm trying to make sure your brain isn't going to dribble out your ears. Any more nausea?"  
  
Sherlock scoffed at the first statement but answered the question. "No, but my head hurts."  
  
"I can give you something for that. How long ago did you get hit?" John realized his hand was still in Sherlock's hair. He quickly withdrew it and went to one of the cabinets in the room. He shook two paracetamol out of the bottle and filled a paper cup with water. He handed them to Sherlock.  
  
"An hour and a half ago. Maybe closer to two. I was unconscious for at least five minutes, and after that everything was sort of fuzzy for a bit." He swallowed the pills and made a face.  
  
"I'll give you something stronger in an hour or so, if you need it. 'Til then, I'm afraid you're stuck with me so I can observe you." John winced at his choice of words in light of Sherlock's earlier admonition.  
  
Sherlock sighed and tipped himself back on the examination table. He gestured lazily in the air with his hand as he spoke. "You won't observe. You'll monitor. Semantics are important, John. Don't forget that. Although you probably will. You-"  
  
John cut him off. "You know how I can tell you're not seriously injured? You're being an ass. Tell me about the case."  
  
Sherlock did, in great detail. He veered off into tangents that insulted his brother, the monarchy, chip shop owners, people who didn't clean up after their dogs, John, Scotland Yard, and Jeremy Kyle. John almost wished he could tape it, as it was most entertaining. He almost forgot Sherlock's earlier admission. Almost.

  
After that, he started taking cases with Sherlock again. He made sure to text Molly every few hours so she wouldn't worry. Even so, he could tell that Molly was pulling away from him. She spent huge blocks of time on the internet, researching the holiday she wanted them to take. He tried to respect her privacy, but he was using her laptop (his was making an ominous grinding noise) one morning after she'd gone to bed and accidentally-on-purpose had a peek at her browser history. Real estate and job hunting sites took up half of the entries. He wondered if she was planning on leaving him.  
  
Maybe... maybe it really was for the best. They weren't in love. They got on alright, but nothing more than alright. Ever since Sherlock had said he loved him, even if it was the brain injury talking, John had been allowing himself the hope that Sherlock would want him again. Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything about that night since, so it was possible he didn't remember (or had deleted) the admission.  
  
In April, Sherlock took a case in Dartmoor. A champion Saluki breeder had a problem with someone poisoning her dogs. Sherlock forwarded him the email from the client describing the dog's symptoms (phosphorus poisoning, a terrible way to die) with a post-script asking John if he'd be interested in joining him on this one. John debated while making himself a cup of tea, then sent back a reply. Sherlock had already booked them train tickets for the next morning. John grinned and set to packing.  
  
He had sex with Molly that night. He weighed the pros and cons of a female's body over Sherlock's and came to the conclusion he could live without the touch of a woman for the rest of his life. Breasts were lovely and soft and he would miss them, along with being able to give his partner multiple orgasms (although that wasn't entirely outside the realm of possibility, just not nearly as common), but on the whole, a body was a body and the largest sexual organ was the brain. Afterwards, he held her close and felt a calm sort of resolve drop into place.  
  
The train ride was nice, although Sherlock became more irritable every time his mobile service cut out. They hired a car in Okehampton and John drove to Tavistock. It was the closest accommodation they could get to Princetown, since it was the weekend of the Dartmoor Jailbreak. Sherlock had choice words on the subject after they almost hit a middle-aged couple dressed in matching black-and-white striped coveralls with silly little caps on.  
  
They checked into the bed and breakfast and were shown to their room. John blushed when he noted there was only one bed.  
  
"Don't trouble yourself, I won't be sleeping," was Sherlock's cool response.  
  
"No. It's fine." John set his bag on the bed. "Sherlock, I've been meaning to talk to you about-"  
  
Sherlock held up his hand. "Later."  
  
John nodded. "Fair enough. We're off to Princetown, then? Wish we could've got a Land Rover with a bush bar, since I'm sure tomorrow is going to be chaos."  
  
It took Sherlock three days to solve the case. Another illegitimate child seeking revenge. Apparently the upper class had nothing better to do than sleep around and produce bastards with the help. They had a celebratory dinner at the only Chinese in the village (which was still nicer than the dive on Baker Street, even if they did have the best hot-and-sour soup in the world) and split a bottle of wine between them. Sherlock popped into the off-license and bought another bottle on the way back. Not strictly unusual, as Sherlock did indulge from time to time after a case.  
  
Once inside the room, John sat on the bed. Sherlock produced a corkscrew and glasses (the B & B catered to couples, apparently it was one of the amenities of the room) and poured the wine. Unable to wait any longer, John blurted the question that had nagged at him for months.  
  
"Did you mean what you said that night when I treated your concussion?"  
  
Sherlock took a sip from his glass. "I'm sure I said a lot of things, you'll have to be more specific."  
  
"You told me that you loved me."  
  
Sherlock eyed John warily. His voice was tight when he answered, "And if I did mean it?"  
  
"Did you?"  
  
Sherlock looked away. He sighed. "Yes."  
  
"Good. That's good. I'd like to come back to Baker Street, if you'll have me."  
  
"I told you before, your room hasn't been touched."  
  
John got up and stood before Sherlock. "Actually, I was hoping I could share yours." He pried the wineglass from Sherlock's hand and laced their fingers together.  
  
Sherlock looked conflicted. "I should tell you to fuck off."  
  
"You should," John smiled. He stepped closer and tilted his head to look up at Sherlock.  
  
"This is the last time, John. You can't go back to her any more."  
  
"I won't." He reached up and cupped Sherlock's cheek. "Thing is, I don't think I could. I don't love her the way I love you."  
  
Sherlock inhaled sharply, then grinned. "Really, John? Does that line actually work?"  
  
John hummed and lifted up on his toes. "Does it?"  
  
Sherlock dipped his head and kissed John.  
  
It was all those things that hack writers (John included) would describe a kiss as being- fireworks, a supernova, coming home. He pulled Sherlock toward the bed and ended up tripping. They tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs, laughing like children. Sherlock rolled to his back and sprang up, then grabbed John's arms and hauled him up too. Clothing was discarded and John pushed Sherlock onto the bed. He dropped to his knees and gave his first ever blowjob. By the time it was finished, his jaw ached and his tongue was numb, but he had a mouthful of semen to prove he wasn't a complete failure.  
  
"I won't be offended if you spit," Sherlock panted from where he'd collapsed backwards halfway through.  
  
John grabbed his t-shirt from the floor and spit into it as discretely as he could, wiping his tongue a few times with the fabric. He settled down next to Sherlock - who had moved to lie the right way on the bed - and planted a chaste kiss on his mouth. Sherlock pried John's lips open and kissed him properly.  
  
He pulled back enough to mumble "You get used to the taste, but it's always better on someone else." He mouthed his way down John's body and proceeded to put John's attempt at oral sex to shame.  
  
For the next three days, they only left the room to get food and buy condoms and lube. Sherlock had been the one to suggest it, quite explicitly during the second blowjob John had ever given. It hadn't been so much a suggestion, more an order ("Christ, John, I want you to fuck me," then guttural moans that belonged in porn), but since they hadn't had anything on hand, John used one spit-slick finger to work Sherlock's prostate. The results were quickly evident all over John's cheeks and chin, and even some in his hair.  
  
John found out more about Sherlock than he'd ever imagined. Mostly his sexual history, which rivalled John's own for depth and breadth of experience, but had been focused primarily on men. Sherlock had slept with three women, one of which he'd actually had feelings for. He'd been in love with a man named Victor when he was at uni. His last partner had been a rentboy named Billy, whom he'd shared the squat with in Bern. Sherlock added that he hadn't paid for it and it had been safe. 

Sherlock liked to be held down. He preferred penetrative sex to be face-to-face so he could be kissed. The small of his back was extremely sensitive to touch, but his nipples weren't. He craved a cigarette after sex more than when he was working on a case. He usually kept his eyes closed because he was easily distracted by visual details. He preferred sleeping in the nude, even without sex.  
  
They left on Friday, since the room was only reserved for a week. John kissed Sherlock before he exited the cab outside of 221B, then went back to his own flat. Molly would be leaving for work by eight and then he could begin packing. He'd already told Sherlock that he planned on breaking the news to Molly after she'd come home from work on Saturday because it wouldn't be right to do it before she went in.  
  
Molly microwaved some ready meals and asked him about the case. He had to embellish some details to stretch the time-line, but she didn't seem suspicious. He wished he didn't have to sham his way through one last dinner. He'd rather have it over and done with, but holding off for a few more hours was the last act of kindness he'd perform in the relationship. He begged off as tired when she tried to initiate sex. She left for work soon after.  
  
There was little in the flat he cared about taking with him. He plucked a few CDs and DVDs off the shelves in the lounge. He left the books, as he'd already read all the ones that interested him. His toiletries were non-essential, he would just use Sherlock's. He emptied his travel bag and washed the clothing he'd taken with him, then repacked the bag with his favourite clothes. He added his laptop and charger, then zipped the bag shut.  
  
He took a cab to Baker Street and dumped his bag in Sherlock's (now their) bedroom. He retrieved his army duffel from the room upstairs. He made himself a cup of tea and settled into his chair. He chuckled and sent Sherlock a text.  
  
** Honey, I'm home. JW **   
  
Sherlock's reply took less than a minute.  
  
** En rt from Bart's. Will discuss use of pet names later. SH **   
  
John hadn't thought to tell Sherlock to stay away from the hospital. He hoped the man had enough sense not to say anything to Molly. She deserved to find out from John. Sherlock wouldn't be intentionally cruel, but half the time he didn't realize how he came off to other people.  
  
Thankfully, Sherlock hadn't said anything when Molly had noticed his wrists. The whole matter was quickly forgotten and they ended up in Sherlock's bed again. John awoke to Sherlock sending a text from his phone. When John asked about it, Sherlock said that he'd told Molly they had a case and not to wait up. They argued a bit over why that wasn't a good idea, but John caved in the end. They split a mostly-full box of stale Jaffa Cakes for breakfast. They even did an oddly domestic thing and cleared enough floorspace in the bedroom to move John's wardrobe down from his old room. They weren't ambitious enough to actually move it, so they showered together, had sex again, and passed out on the bed.  
  
John woke up again at seven in the evening and decided it was time to go face the music. He cleaned himself up a bit and dropped a kiss on the top of Sherlock's head on his way out. He let himself into the flat and decided he would take one last good shower (the water pressure in Baker Street was horrible and the water went cold after fifteen minutes; thirteen of those minutes were inevitably Sherlock's) before he sat her down and broke the news.  
  
It was a lovely shower. He used the massage setting on the shower head and turned the water as hot as he could stand. He spent a good twenty minutes under the spray before he decided that enough was enough and it was time to get on with things. He wrapped a towel around himself and stepped out into the bedroom.  
  
Molly sat on the bed facing the bathroom, a packed travel bag next to her. So, she'd figured it out then. He wasn't surprised really, she wasn't stupid.  
  
He tried to explain, but she cut him off. The worst part was that she wasn't upset about it. She was calm and understanding and John felt about two inches tall. Then she left.  
  
John sat on the bed, still in his towel. So this was it. A sense of relief mixed with more sadness than he'd expected; he might not have loved her and that had been unfair, but he'd also just lost the best female friend he'd ever had. He knew Molly could take care of herself, she was still the self-confident and independent woman he'd known. They'd grown apart. But just thinking of how he must have hurt her made him hurt in turn. He lamented on how truly fucked romantic entanglements could be.  
  
He heard the front door open and close and wondered if she'd changed her mind. The footfalls weren't hers though; it was Sherlock. She must have contacted him while John had been in the shower.  
  
Sherlock stood in the doorway of the bedroom. He'd brought the bag John had taken with him to Baker Street yesterday, still full.  
  
Molly wanted him gone and now Sherlock was bringing his things back, probably having decided the old adage of 'once a cheater, always a cheater' to be true. No, that didn't make sense. He was getting blubbery and emotional and jumping to stupid conclusions.  
  
John sighed and wiped a hand over his face. "What's in the bag?"  
  
Sherlock tossed it onto the bed and walked to John's dresser. Wordlessly, he began pulling the neatly folded pants and t-shirts out of the top drawer. 

"Are you going to just sit there feeling sorry for yourself, or are you going to get dressed and start being useful?"  
  
John unzipped the bag to find it stuffed with his duffel, along with Sherlock's battered rucksack and few other cheap nylon bags, the kind that you used to get for free from airlines. Oh. Well, that made perfect sense then. 

He snatched a pair of briefs off the bed and discarded his towel, then shimmied into the jeans he'd worn the day before. John set about packing as Sherlock emptied the dresser. He grabbed a bin liner from the kitchen and started a bag for the charity shop as well. They ran out of space before getting to John's summer clothes. They threw the rest into more bin liners and moved on to the other areas of the flat. John left most everything, just getting rid of the things that were obviously his and would serve as a reminder of his presence.  
  
Sherlock made a call on his mobile in what sounded like some Eastern European language. Fifteen minutes later, a short, hairy man with a giant moustache arrived with a delivery van. All of John's things were loaded into the back. He sent Sherlock off with the driver and double-checked that everything was right in the flat. He emptied the rest of the milk down the drain so it wouldn't go off before Molly returned, then took the rubbish out after he'd binned the more perishable leftovers. He brought the bags for the charity shop into the lounge and labelled them with a sticky note. He took the spare keys to Molly's car off the ring and set them on the table by the door. He kept his door keys in case he might need them.  
  
In a fit of sentimentality, he went into the bedroom and removed the gold ring he'd worn for three years from Molly's jewellery box and pocketed it. He'd put it in the box with his Army medals when he got back to the flat.  
  
He took one last look around and locked the door behind him.  
  
Molly phoned a week later. She didn't say where she'd gone, but she informed him that she wouldn't need the lease signed over to her, they'd have it terminated. Sherlock was reluctant to stay home when John met with Molly a few days later, but he was eventually persuaded when John threatened to call Mycroft and have the live CCTV feed patched into Sherlock's laptop. Sherlock still sulked, but at least he'd promised not to show up.  
  
They met at the bank, where they closed the joint account. John insisted Molly take the money (it wasn't a huge sum, just the month's rent and utilities, along with the money they'd put away for the holiday they'd talked about) to get started in her new life. Molly had brought the paperwork for the lease and John's post. She had a short list of phone calls he'd need to make, along with telephone and account numbers. She'd been meticulous about every last detail, which he admired her for. There was crying and hugging and she told him that she wasn't changing her mobile number.  
  
John let himself into 221B to find it empty. Sherlock hadn't texted, so it wasn't a case. John was tired and wrung-out, so he skipped tea and went straight to the bedroom. He stripped down to his pants and crawled under the covers. He fell asleep with his face buried in Sherlock's pillow.  
  
He woke when Sherlock slipped into bed beside him. Sherlock didn't offer any explanation as to his whereabouts, just snuggled up behind John and held him. It was bizarre, but not wholly unexpected.  
  
Sherlock had become much more attentive to John since he'd moved back and it didn't stop after John's meeting with Molly. Tiny things, like fixing tea before John woke up. Sherlock left enough space free on the worktop for John to prepare food (an exact thirty centimetre square in front of the toaster). He'd even obtained a roll of biohazard stickers, which began showing up on various items around the kitchen. 

There were also the small displays of physical affection;a kiss good night before John turned in while Sherlock worked on some experiment or read a book, a guiding hand to the small of John's back when exiting the flat, Sherlock's legs over his lap, his computer balanced on Sherlock's shins as he typed up the newest case. Sometimes Sherlock would ride along with him to the Diogenes to swim while John worked and then come down to the surgery and actually wait for him to finish up so they could ride home together. By the standard previously set by Sherlock, John was being pampered.  
  
Life, for the most part, was much as it had been the first time they'd lived together. Sherlock still fell into black moods and sometimes retreated to John's old room, which served primarily as storage space. John tried to never take it personally, with varying degrees of success. They'd fight about Sherlock's lack of empathy for most people or John's propensity for hasty self-sacrifice. Strange items would show up and disappear again. Noxious experiments of dubious intent were still a weekly occurrence. Sherlock's violin was tortured more than it was played. Cases came and went.  
  
They'd decided to keep their relationship private, although John was sure it was obvious to anyone with eyes. Mycroft didn't say a word about it to either of them, for which John was eternally grateful. Mrs. Hudson dropped hints that she wanted grandchildren after Mrs. Turner's married ones moved to St. Albans and adopted a baby from Vietnam. Donovan eyed them speculatively at crime scenes and once asked John if things had worked out. He'd told her that yes, it had, surprisingly well in fact, and she gave him a sad little smile, but said she was happy for him.  
  
They were invited to the reception when Lestrade got remarried the following summer. A tipsy Sally pulled John toward the dance floor, promising Sherlock she'd keep her hands to herself with a wink that made Sherlock scowl. It wasn't as though they'd become great friends or anything, but they'd been seated at the same table and she'd come alone. John didn't mind, he liked to dance. 

He fully expected Sherlock to be gone by the time he got back to the table, but he was still there, animatedly discussing something with Lestrade. John's hand lingered on Sherlock's shoulder as he pulled his chair out from the table and Lestrade caught the significance of the gesture. John very deliberately left his hand on Sherlock's back as the two continued their conversation, something about one of the catering staff obviously being a drug dealer. As Lestrade left the table, he gave them a fond smile. Thankfully, Sherlock was engrossed in his phone and missed it.  
  
Harry was another matter. She emailed periodically. John responded with vague answers, only admitting he'd moved back in with Sherlock after she'd asked when she was going to be an aunt. He'd waited for the 'I told you so,' but it never came. She hadn't emailed him for six weeks after that, and then it had only been to tell him about how great her latest girlfriend was. He'd kept his responses short and polite. The emails dwindled down to one every few months, then just his birthday and Christmas. He didn't want his sister butting into his life and it wasn't a very nice sentiment, but he was glad that she kept her distance.  
  
He went back to his novel, completely re-working it. Sherlock casually suggested while on a layover in Orlando that he publish it.  
  
John had been idly browsing the newsagents' for something else to read on the nine hour flight home. Sherlock took one look at the paperback in John's hand and snorted. "You should get yours published. It's at least more accurate than that drivel." He plucked the book from John's hand and began slicing the plot to ribbons, but John had stopped paying attention. It came as no surprise that Sherlock had found it on his laptop, but that he'd actually read it and not made snide comments about it to John was oddly touching.  
  
John found an agent (who he suspected Sherlock had negotiated a favour from or outright blackmailed) and within six months his first book was ready for publication. He'd decided early on not to use his real name. Since the backdrop of the book was the time Sherlock had spent hunting down Moriarty (with the other cases woven in as flashbacks), he decided to use the name he'd been living under for those years. 

He struggled with the dedication. There weren't many people he really had to thank. Sherlock, certainly, whether he liked it or not. He hadn't spoken to his sister in over a year and his parents were long dead. The only other person he'd considered family was Molly.  
  
John hadn't heard from Molly in the five years since they'd split. She'd resigned from Bart's and had moved out of what had been their flat within a month of the break-up. He thought about her sometimes, but hadn't made an effort to contact her. The guilt for his dishonesty with her had lessened over time, but never fully left him. He decided that even if she'd probably never see it, he would dedicate the book to her.  
  
His book wasn't a huge success, but it became a sort of a gay cult classic. He hadn't written any romance into it, but apparently the love that he shared with Sherlock had made it into the prose and created the kind of subtext that fans devoted internet forums to.  
  
That Christmas, he received an envelope with no return address and a postmark from Falmouth. Inside was a generic card and a photo with a note on the back. John studied the photo. It was an informal family portrait, taken in someone's garden in the summertime. A tallish man with dark brown thinning hair and glasses stood with his arm around a beaming Molly. A little boy was balanced on her hip, his head buried in her neck but peeking shyly through his sandy fringe at the camera. On the back was a short note.  
  
_ I'm happy. Hope you're happy too.  _   
  
John looked over to the mantel, where Sherlock stood in front of crime scene photos tacked to the wall and sellotaped to the mirror. There were toes dissolving in a beaker of enzyme solution in the kitchen and a stack of evidence boxes nearly as tall as John creating a wall in the centre of the lounge. He hadn't slept in sixty-seven hours and his last meal had been a cold spring roll leftover from the take-away they'd had three days ago.  
  
He looked down at the picture.  _ I am. I really, really am _ .

 


End file.
